


The winds of War

by CamilleDuDemon



Series: Following the Wind [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: A little bit of gore, Actually Ivar can poorly express his feelings, Blood and Injury, Character Development, Character Study, Cultural Differences, Domestic, F/M, Family Issues, First Love, Healers, Human Sacrifice, Ivar may be a little shit, Prophetic Dreams, Religious Discussion, Smut, War, a little angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-08 17:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13462581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: Hilda has sailed with Ivar hoping to find a home in Kattegat. However, her hopes get dashed when she finds out that Lagertha, Ragnar's first wife, has murdered Ivar's mother and has taken over Ragnar's kingdom, depriving Ivar from the person he loves the most and instilling in him a ruthless lust for vengeance that even the massive defeat of the English Army by the hands of the Great Heathen Army can't sedate. A war of worlds and a war between brothers occur: is Hilda ready to pay the price of standing at Ivar's side, even if he proves himself to be the bloody monster her sister has foretold?(SUGGESTION: To catch up with this story, you should give a look to "The winds of the North" first. Thank you so much for your attention, dear reader, have a nice reading session!)





	1. A dove must learn how to fly on her own, pt. I

I.

 

Hilda was sitting cross-legged on the bridge, watching the foggy, snowy mountain tops that had appeared in distance.

Since one of the sailors had shouted ‘laaaaaaaand!’ atop of his lungs, a sudden frenzy had pervaded the usually calm crew of the ship, Moors had started running here and there, barking commands and scanning meticulously their surroundings with dark, attentive eyes.

Hilda had paced around with nothing to do for a while, biting at her nails or fidgeting with the rim of her sleeves manically, until Omar had asked her to sit with him to contemplate the breathtaking landscape of the fjord that was slowly appearing in front of them.

Ivar was luckily sleeping in a corner with a blanket on his shoulders, but his face looked nonetheless sickly pale and emaciated: he had spent most of his time throwing up, incapable of moving without feeling dizzy or nauseous, so it had been up to Hilda alone to take care of Omar’s - and a few of his companions - education, although she could hardly remember his father’s tales about vikings customs and traditions.

Omar was curious man by nature and he was particularly interested in arts and religion, two things that Hilda wasn’t prepared to answer questions about, while Ivar was too moody to satisfy their host’s curiosity. Hilda had tried to tell him that she didn’t worship the same gods as Ivar, but Omar looked stubbornly incapable of understanding such a simple concept.

Despite that, the captain’s son had always been kind to both of them, making sure they had the best food and the warmest blankets, and sometimes - as an exercise, he used to say, but Hilda knew it was only an excuse for having someone to talk to - he had told the healer things about his life. Hilda had discovered, then, that he was born in a wealthy family from Mecca, where they ran a successful business, and it was on his father’s insistence that they had crossed the borders of the Mediterranean Sea and started a trade with the northern regions. He didn’t approve his father’s bold venture, he had confided her on a night when he had been particularly chatty, knowing that trading with Byzantium was definitely more profitable, but he had followed him anyway because of his duties as a firstborn son. Hilda could definitely understand the feeling, since that was exactly what she had done with her mother all her life.

“Are you happy?”

The young healer’s elucubrations got suddenly interrupted and she found herself smiling softly to the Moor sitting next to her.

She wore a warm, wintery dress because - although it was still midsummer - the air was crispy and damp.

“I think I am, yes...are you, Omar?”

The merchant grinned and his pearly teeth shined in the milky fog.

“It’s a new world”, he stated, with his strong accented voice. He was a fast learner and, although he still mixed saxon and norse in his brief sentences sometimes, he would have surely improved his language skills soon living among the vikings and trading with them. “Thank you for your...uh...company...and for your...lessons”, he slowly said, trying his best to remember difficult words as ‘company’ or ‘lessons’.

“Please, don’t thank me. It’s me and Ivar who must be grateful: you treated us as guests...as friends. No lesson can repay it.”

He shook his head, rummaging inside a leather bag he carried along and finally picking out an expensive, finely decorated book, bound in thick leather and wood.

Hilda was petrified when he literally pushed it into her hands with an eloquent look that admitted no refuse.

“For you. Poetry...from Mecca. You can read it, yes? A sign...a sign of...gratitude.”

The healer gasped, speechless, and Omar chuckled seeing her all flustered and flattered.

Ivar tossed and turned in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. That gave her the chills, reminding her of a disturbing dream that had plagued her sleep on a couple of nights.

_ A dream in which she was standing still on a carpet of dead, wet leaves, with her bare feet crusted with caked mud and blood while a beaten old man called her name from under the rotting ground. _

Whenever that dream had occurred, she had held onto Ivar - who wasn’t asleep, just curled at her side trying to command his stomach not to twist at every wave that hit the ship - as for dear life, without having the nerve of telling him what her night terrors had been about. Because, she sure, that defeated, miserable old man was Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar’s father, a legend for his people and more, a man whose name was known even in the deepest regions of the Eastern Roman Empire - Omar had confirmed that. He had first heard Ragnar Lothbrok’s name in the grand halls of the imperial palace of Byzantium, pretty far from the viking’s lands.

“Did my gift offend you?”

Hilda snapped back to reality, once again thanks to her friendly host.

She chased the last strands of her gloomy thoughts away with a vague gesture of her hand, then shook her head vigorously.

“Not at all. It flattered me. It’s...too much.”

Omar let out a dismissive sound.

“Nothing is too much...to repay a teacher...we say.”

She smiled, remembering that Mansour had once said the same thing to her a long time before.

The ship had entered the fjord and the first wooden buildings could be seen on the sandy shore. There were some piers, but not a single palisade or gate or wall.

“No defenses”, noticed Omar, with a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“My mother told me that my father was amazed about how saxons kept their towns and villages enclosed...he had told her that vikings tend not to fortificate their villages because they’re always ready to fight back if needed…”

The Moor cocked his brow in disagreement, however he didn’t say anything about the matter.

“You’re almost home”, he said instead, smiling softly.

Hilda let her gaze wander over the small wooden buildings, looking at the people starting to pack on the shore, waiting.

_ Was it home, then? Was that Kattegat, the richest trading town of the whole Norway, homeland of King Ragnar Lothbrok, the man who had led his people farther than any other leader had done before? _

“I suppose...yes”, she said. Then a thought crossed her mind.

_ She had never really known where did her father come from, exactly. _

  
  
  


When the boat docked, the sound of the horns was still echoing through the town, gloomy and low. 

A lot of people were packed on the shore and as many were watching the foreigners getting off the boat from afar. Some were eyeing suspiciously at their weird clothes, muttering things under their breaths.

Ivar was still half asleep because of the concoction a sailor had made for him out of pity when he had realized he hadn’t been sleeping properly since they had left the mainland. Omar asked two hunky sailors to help him off the boat and when they did, two young men stepped out of the crowd and Hilda immediately recognized them as Ivar’s older brothers, as much as they didn’t look like him at all. She could barely remember their names, nor put a face to an eventual name though, but there was something familiar in both of them...something that must have been owed by Ragnar Lothbrok too.

_ The man of her dream, calling her from under the ground. _

They both looked quite surprised to see a young woman by Ivar’s side: the bearded one had a concerned frown on his face, making him look surely older than he actually was. His eyes, she noticed, were wide and round, blue as the clearest sky. After a quick glance, though, he decided she wasn’t a threat and nodding towards the other brother he took half of Ivar’s considerable weight on his shoulder, sharing it with him.

“Come. We must go”, he said, and Hilda trailed behind him like an obedient puppy, hearing him say “Sigurd, you carry Ivar. She rides with me” through his gritted teeth.

Sigurd groaned in protest, adjusting Ivar’s deadweight on his shoulder and eliciting a weak complaint to escape from his chapped lips.

Hilda wanted to say something, but she felt almost dizzy with confusion. The sons of Ragnar seemed very impatient to flee away from the crowd and the nauseating smell of gutted fish, so she naturally felt that urge too.

Mounting a dazed Ivar on Sigurd’s horse was a difficult task and her hands didn’t seem eager to do what she commanded them to do: she could feel someone’s gaze burning on her back, inquisitive and stern.

She didn’t know that those eyes that were scrutinizing her belonged to Lagertha, the legendary shieldmaiden who had been Ragnar’s first wife. She didn’t know that those eyes belonged to the queen of Kattegat, who wasn’t Ivar’s mother anymore.

  
  
  
  


“I told you my name, now what’s yours? Who are you?”

Hilda was holding tight to Ubbe’s waist. It had been a long time since she had shared a horse with someone - probably it had happened in the lands of the Germans, but she couldn’t recall why or with whom she had done that - and any slightest jolt coming from the horse’s hips made her flinch, as though Ubbe had made the animal slow down as soon as they had left Kattegat behind.

He looked more relaxed, now. At least he wasn’t being crushed by Ivar’s slouched body as Sigurd was, she thought, watching as the other brother muttered a series of curses while struggling to keep Ivar on his steed’s back without suffocating to death.

“I’m with Ivar”, she said, without really thinking about what she was saying.

Ubbe sneered, clicking his tongue in an annoyed way.

“Tell me something that I don’t know. You can start with your name and, perhaps, tell me why my brother came back from Wessex on a trader’s ship with you, instead of on one of our boats with my father, or what are you doing here exactly…”

Hilda gnawed at her inner cheek, drawing some blood.

“My name is Hilda and I’m a healer...my father was a viking”, she started, knowing that Ubbe’s questions were nothing but fair. She would have done the same, if it would have been one of her sisters to bring home a stranger she knew absolutely nothing about. “Your father’s boats wrecked, that’s why we came here with a trading company…”

The man winced as if he had just taken a bite of a nasty mushroom.

“Why are you with Ivar?”, he dryly asked.

The young woman noticed that Sigurd had turned his horse to get close to theirs and was listening carefully at what she had to say.

She took a deep breath, then, inhaling the strong scent of pine needles and fog.

_ Was that the scent of home? Of her father’s home? _

It looked like it was about to rain, for the sky was gary and clouded with thick clouds.

A surge of panic gripped her throat, but she was determined to give them a convincing explanation...even though she couldn’t come up with anything convincing at all.

“Because we’re together”, she finally said, trying to sound steady and confident when she wasn’t at all.

Sigurd frowned, looking at her as if she had grown a second head right on the spot.

“Together...like a couple?”

he sounded vividly impressed, as if he had been sure Ivar would have spent his whole life alone, given that in Kattegat no one would have ever chose to deliberately stick to his grumpy, crippled and unstable little brother’s side. 

Hilda swallowed hard.

_ Were they a couple? _

She had never bothered to wonder if they were, in facts, a couple. Back in Wessex they had behaved as one, for sure, therefore she had never asked him anything about the subject...but his brothers didn’t need to know that.

“Yes”, she said, cutting it short.

Sigurd looked twice as baffled, deepening his frown as much as he could until he looked like a grumpy elder with a mask of wrinkles instead of a face.

“Unbelievable…”, he muttered, shaking his head with a sneer.

There was a spoilt, bare hunting hut in distance, with its roof covered in moss to keep it as warm as possible even in the icy winter nights.

“Do you live there?”, she innocently asked, pointing her finger towards the hut.

Ubbe gave her a court nod and she felt like something was off. 

_ Why were the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, the greatest man among the norsemen so far, living in a dusty wooden hut in the middle of nothing? If she could remember correctly, her father had told her that viking rulers of any rank used to live in long, impressive buildings in the very core of their town...why were the sons of a legend and a queen live there? Had they been banished? But, more importantly, what crime would have been so mean to force a mother to send her own children away? _

Hilda’s stomach twisted with disquiet.

“Why should the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok live in a hunting hut?”

Ubbe’s gaze darted to Sigurd, as if they were speaking without voicing it out. She held her breath for a long moment, until Ubbe said it was a long story and gave his horse a light kick, causing it to quicken his pace.

“This is our home, for now, and I suppose it’s going to be your home too”, he finally said, curling his lips in a blatantly fake smile.

Hilda nodded in response, trying her best to silence the definitely too loud thoughts thronging in her mind.

  
  
  
  


As though it looked shabby from the outside, inside the hut was put together nicely like a proper home, with decorated beds and furs and a long table with two benches and a couple of tree stumps for sitting.

She sat there with her hands folded on her lap while Ubbe carried Ivar to his bed and let out a relieved sigh when she heard him snoring from the nearby room.

Sigurd was still watching her as if she was some kind of curious animal, like one of those songbirds she had seen fleetingly while rushing to the horses in Kattegat, and that made her nervous.

Ubbe came back, handing her a cup of ale. It was refreshing after a journey in which she had drunk either spiced wine or foul tasting water.

“What have you done to Ivar? Why is he like that?”, he asked, rubbing his swollen eyes like a tired toddler.

“I didn’t do anything. A sailor gave him something to sleep, he hasn’t slept well since we left Wessex...I met him after a shipwreck, I think he was afraid that boat could sink too…”

Ubbe tilted his head.

“A...shipwreck?”

“Yes. You father’s boat got caught up in a storm and I found Ivar on the shore, half-drowned. I think he was left for dead...anyway, I carried him to my home and I took care of him. We have been together since…”

“Are you sure this is not a poem you’ve heard somewhere?”, asked Sigurd, clearly making fun of the healer’s story. She cast him a dirty look.

“A poem like the ones you write and sing? Ivar told me you’re a valiant musician”, she blurted out, emphasizing the word  _ musician _ as if it was some kind of insult to his masculinity.

He scowled, giving in to her taunting, outraged.

“Ivar says a lot of things”, he spat, “but not everything is true.”

She frowned, faking innocence. She didn’t want to fight while Ivar was still passed out and the brothers didn’t trust her completely.

“So he lied to me when he said that you’re a very talented musician?”

“No, he didn’t, but---”

“Enough with this!”, Ubbe stepped in, interrupting his brother’s rant unceremoniously. “You said that you found Ivar on the shore, right?”, he questioned Hilda, and she nodded. “Was our father with him? Did he survive the shipwreck?”

The urge in his voice made her flinch, causing her to spill some ale on the table and on his skirt.

“No, he was alone. I don’t know if Ragnar Lothbrok is still alive…”, she said, half lying. The Goddess had showed her that Ragnar was presumably dead and she had chosen to trust her guts, therefore she couldn’t say he was still alive.

_ No man, not even a legend, can survive in a pit under the ground,  _ she bitterly thought.

Ubbe relaxed a little, slouching on the bench with a long sigh.

“So where is our father?”, he asked, stroking his beard in a thoughtful way.

The healer shrugged.

“Ivar supposes he’s being held captive somewhere by king Ecbert”, she said, leaving out the part where one of her mother’s visions had corroborated Ivar’s assumptions. Even though she knew better that vikings didn’t have the same common believe about foreseeing and fortune-telling as christians, she didn’t feel comfortable telling them what her mother and her sister were capable of. 

The weird feeling of a looming threat was spreading, crawling under her skin, making her even more aware about the icy dampness of the air around her.

_ What was going on in that town that was supposed to be her home? What was Ubbe’s so called “long story” about their confinements in the woods? _

No answer, though, would have come as long as Ivar was still passed out.

To fight the unpleasant feeling of unease, the young healer stood up and, with a nervous twitch, she clapped her hands.

“So, how can I make myself useful?”, she asked, trying to sound motivated and full of energy.

Ubbe’s gaze softened, his eyes seeming impossibly large and languid in that moment of vulnerability.

“There are a couple of things that you can do, yes…”

  
  
  
  


The rabbits for the dinner looked fat and juicy, as Hilda inspected them to make a good incision to eviscerate and skin them.

Sigurd was watching her closely, not being a master at taking care of venison or anything seemingly menial enough to be done by a thrall...a thrall that, unfortunately, wasn’t with them in the hut.

“You’re good at this”, he said, mesmerized by the elegant moves of her hands while she was peeling the rabbit like a ripe fruit, discarding the fur in a large bucket where to store it until it was time to bring some to the tanner.

She chuckled airily.

“I’m used to this...I started hunting as soon as I proved myself a better archer than my mother.”

Sigurd nodded, trying to copy her movements with his knife but making sort of a mess anyway.

“And...your father? You said he was a viking…”

“He died when I was young. I don’t remember much of him, but I guess you can say the same about Ragnar…”

Her words were welcomed by a tensed silence.

No one of them spoke for a while and Ivar’s brother started humming a tune to fill it.

Hilda thought it was familiar, somehow, yet she was aware it could have only been suggestion, a trick of her overexcited mind. 

She cleared her throat.

“I know something about music…”, she started. “When I was living on an island in the Mediterranean Sea, my teacher insisted to teach me the basics of music...lute, mainly.”

Sigurd nodded with approval, impressed.

“Seems that you traveled a lot…”

It was true. She had traveled more than the average person would have done in an entire lifetime. When you travel like that, she thought bitterly with a wince on her lips, there’s no place that you can claim as your true home...until someone shows you the place where you were always meant to belong.

“Our mother is dead”, said Sigurd then, out of the blue. He had plush, pale lips, swollen like a girl’s, and a thin, blonde beard that grew only on his chin. “That’s why we’re living here, far from the town. Ragnar’s first wife killed her and, as much as she had never been a good mother to me, we can’t just live there and pretend nothing happened...”

Hilda covered her mouth with her bloodsoaked hand. 

“Ivar…”, she whispered, knowing by his tales he loved his mother deeply, a mother he had always described as caring and nurturing - the best mother a kid could have asked for.

“Yes, he was her favorite child...and he loved her a lot. He’d surely seek for vengeance…”, the young man muttered, as if he was thinking out loud.

“I’d do the same if it was my mother who were killed.”

He eyed at her, a brow raised.

“Of course, but there’s a huge difference between you and Ivar: he’s crazy, you don’t look like you’re crazy as well.”

The healer cleaned the knife Ubbe had handed her on a tattered rag.

“I can’t understand”, she stuttered.

She didn’t like the subject that conversation had ended up to.  

_ She has had enough of people telling her that Ivar was bad. _

“Ivar isn’t a good person. Did he tell you the story of how he killed a kid when he was like five? No? He threw a axe in his skull because that poor kid had snatched the ball from his hands...that’s how Ivar is: there’s a rage in him that could make Thor himself run away with fear.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

Of course he wasn’t. Eyes like his, shining so bright in the dying light of the day, couldn’t lie.

Hilda took a deep breath.

Ivar was definitely more than what could meet the eye, he was stubborn and resolute, but she refused to believe that the sparkle that constantly gleamed in his eyes was bloodlust, as Ælfrith had told her many, many times. Undoubtedly, she had been scared when Ivar had gripped his fingers so tightly around her arm he had left red bruises in the shape of his digits that had lasted for a day or two when they still were in Wessex and they hadn’t even kissed yet... _ she thought it felt like a lifetime had passed, but if she pressed her fingers into the tender flesh of her upper arm she could still feel the muscle aching beneath. _

“He’s not...he’s not mean…”, she blabbered, the urge to take his side stronger than any evidence.

“Did he blind you with his charm, girl? I was only trying to warn you.”

Sigurd looked bitter, angry, as if Hilda’s words had personally offended him. 

He left without a further word, leaving her alone with some dead rabbits to take care of and a lot of questions about how messed up the relationship between the sons of Ragnar truly was.

She decided not to care, though: there was a reason if the Goddess wanted her to leave her family with Ivar, and she had to accept his brothers’ presence regardless, because if they were part of Ivar’s life, they had to be part of hers too.

Lost in her thoughts, the healer started humming the same tune as Sigurd, picking it up from where he had interrupted to rush away with indignation.

_ It turned out she knew it, after all... _

 

  
  
  
  
  



	2. A dove must learn how to fly on her own, part II

II.

 

Ivar woke up from his slumber just before daybreak and despite the house being as silent as a grave he found everyone sitting at the long table, eating porridge and drinking watery ale.

It felt weird to see Hilda fit so well within his own world, sitting next to Ubbe as if she was meant to be there, as if she had belonged there since her birth. Although the whole scene might have looked idyllic, Ivar felt that something was off...but it wasn’t up to him to start a conversation.

“Where’s our father?”, Sigurd abruptly asked.

_ Straight to the point. _

Ivar took a sharp breath and the smell of dust and decaying wood hit his nostrils. He struggled to climb on a tree stump - the pain in his legs hadn’t cut him any slack since they had sailed with the traders - and Ubbe poured him some ale.

“Where’s Ragnar?”, he echoed, the pitcher still stuck in mid-air hanging from his slender hand.

“Probably dead”, he stated, his eyes darting to meet Hilda’s, who was nervously stirring the thick porridge in her bowl with a spoon. “Either executed by King Ecbert or King Aelle, they both had unfinished business with him…”

Sigurd bursted into a throaty sneer.

“How can you know, if you were playing lovebirds with her?”, he said, pointing out at Hilda. 

“Her mother is a seeress. Her visions are to trust, I have proofs of how powerful she is...however, our father is probably dead by now and we will have to avenge him. That’s what matters.”

Ubbe straightened his back, sharing a weighty look with Sigurd. The healer guessed what was about to happen so she left her tasteless porridge unfinished, her stomach knotted. 

_ Ivar was about to receive the terrible news that his beloved mother had died. She thought that she could have never lived with the fact that her mother had been brutally murdered...probably Ivar couldn’t either.  _

“We have something to tell you...mother is dead.”

Sigurd’s statement was dry and direct.

Ivar gave him an incredulous look, clearly unable to process what he had just said. Slowly, realization turned his face into a mask of sadness, his eyes getting more and more watery with each particular Ubbe added to the tale of how and why she had been killed by Lagertha.

He looked on the verge of speaking once or twice, but there was no way such a deep grief could be voiced out.

Hilda’s heart clenched at the sight. It was no secret that Ivar had grown on her, therefore seeing in him in such a pitiful state overwhelmed her. She brushed the tips of her fingers on his back, trying to soothe his sorrow, but he barely registered it, walling himself deeper into the fortress of his mute agony.

_ There was nothing that she could do for him, like that. _

Choking back a weep, she left him alone when Sigurd and Ubbe left to attend their business.

_ Maybe it was the best thing she could do. Maybe he was used to face his sorrow just like that: all alone. _

  
  
  
  


Hilda couldn’t fully understand Ivar’s way of grieving. She had grown up in a family where being alone or keeping things to themselves was literally impossible, so Ivar’s voiceless pain was something she wasn’t used to. He didn’t say a thing, yet sorrow was painted all over his face like some sort of makeup he couldn’t wash off and it made him look like an impossibly old baby, like a child of a thousand years, all curled on himself yet starving for a friendly hand to share his burden with.

“Lagertha’s hosting a celebration...she expects to see us in the Great Hall and I think it could serve us to spot her weaknesses before we attack. Are you going to take a bath with us? We can’t walk in covered in filth and sweat…”, Ubbe asked both to Hilda and Ivar.

Instead of giving him a proper answer, Ivar only slipped off his stool ungracefully and crawled to the other room, only to come back all wrapped up in a wool cloak, carrying something with him.

Hilda opened her mouth to speak, but he only handed her a balled heavy cloak to wear.

“It’s cold outside”, he mumbled, and she blushed violently at his unsolicited kind gesture.

_ Maybe poets had other ways to sing about love, nevertheless that was the closest thing to the love they liked to describe she had experienced in a very long time. _

  
  
  
  


_ How did it feel to be the sons of a dead queen while the new ruler was the very murderer of your mother?  _ Hilda was wondering that while looking at the many shieldmaidens deployed all around the pond where Ubbe and Sigurd were taking a bath, ready to draw their swords and strike mercilessly at the first wrong move. She came to the conclusion that it was like being a prisoner in your own home, guarded day and night and living with the constant fear of being killed off for whatever reason. The thought alone was enough to make her feel sick.

While his brothers were bathing, she and Ivar just sat on the muddy ground, each one lost in their own thoughts.

She had tried to give him the comfort he obviously needed, a shoulder to cry on, but he had pushed her away, not ready yet to let someone penetrate the high walls with which he had protected his vulnerability for so long.

If she couldn’t be any useful into lifting Ivar’s sorrow, she could at least have a bath: the first rule a healer had to follow in order to be a good healer was to always be as clean as possible, and she clearly wasn’t after a long boat ride in which she couldn’t have had a decent bath.

“Do you mind if I take a bath?”, she asked him, squeezing his thin thigh to draw his attention.

He suddenly came back to his senses, like a statue that turns to life, pinning her to the ground and letting a soft, broken sound escape from his lips.

“Stay…”, he whispered, almost begging her not to leave him.

She gave him a small, sad smile.

“Of course.”

_ The bath could wait. _

_She decided that_ _anything could wait, if he needed her so desperately._

_ Even something as sacred as a bath. _

  
  
  
  


The young viking crawled his way silently to the hilltop, ignoring the stinging pain in his shoulders and arms, his tired muscles yelling at him to stop.

The calloused palms of his hands were covered in blisters, but that was some kind of discomfort he could have dealt with later.

Hearing Hilda’s footsteps behind him was comforting, though it scared him beyond imagination to finally have someone to rely on after a life of marginalisation and solitude.

He wanted so bad to thank her for being by his side but a lump in his throat kept the words locked inside his sealed mouth.

When they finally reached the top, he found a large rock where to sit. Looking Kattegat from a height, seeing it so distant and small and full of life despite the terrible tragedy that had shaken it up, got his heart overwhelmed by feelings he had absolutely no control over.

They mauled and gnawed, clawing until he let out a long, agonizing, feral cry that reverberated through the fjord, the sound of a wounded beast, and tears started spilling uncontrollably all over his face. He screamed and screamed until his throat was sore and scorched, the coppery taste of blood spreading through his mouth, until he couldn’t tell where grief ended and anger started, until he felt Hilda’s warmth on his skin and soaked her dress with bitter tears.

She cradled his head with her cold, little hand, and whispered comforting nothings in his ears, petting his hair until the last sob had left his chest shaking.

“Lagertha...Ecbert and Aelle...they will all pay…”, he murmured, hiding his face in the soft creases of her skirt while she was shushing him like a kid.

_ For the first time in his life, Ivar had someone to cry with. Someone who could make him feel less alone, less ignored, less hated. _

_ Someone whose warmth could pick up the pieces of his broken heart and place them together sewing him back to someone less angry, less lonely...less strong. _

He abruptly let go of her when that thought crossed his mind. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but she was clearly freezing, the dampness of the ground piercing through her thin shoes and making her shiver violently.

“We should go back”, he stated. Hilda agreed, wondering if the land Ivar had persuaded her to call a home wasn’t far more dangerous than what her father had told her when she was a girl.

For the first time since they had parted, Hilda found herself longing for her mother’s wise advice or Ælfrith’s obnoxious admonitions. Though times were coming, as her mother had foretold, and the smell of blood and death was vivid in the cold air. 

_ Was she really ready for what was awaiting ahead? _

Ivar gave her a look and his eyes - although puffy and bloodshot for his breakdown - were full of deadly determination.

A shiver ran down the healer’s spine, fear pooling in her stomach, nasty and sour.

There was a thought at the back of her mind, something foggy that she could not recognize yet but that soon would have shown up... _ something that looked dangerously like her mother’s or her sister’s visions, that kind of thought that made them say “I know it because I know it, no more questions, Hild” and made her feel minuscule, unworthy. _

“Ivar…?”, she called. But he was already gone, leaving behind nothing more than the evidence of his crawling on the muddy ground.

  
  
  
  


“I thought you weren’t going to attend Lagertha’s celebration…”

Ivar groaned quietly, his eyes shining with a murderous light.

“I changed my mind”, he said, faking a reasonable voice.

Hilda pursed her lips into a thin, straight line.

_ He was going to kill Lagertha.  _

_ There was no way she could know it, but she knew it anyway. _

_ Like her mother. Like her sister.  _

_ Was that what Maeve wanted from her? To embrace the gifts the Goddess had given her?  _

_ She definitely was, if it meant saving Ivar from a certain death. _

If there was something that her mother had started teaching her since a young age, it was “never engage in a fight that you’re not sure to win”. She was no warrior but there was no doubt it was a good advice if someone would have lived a long, quiet life.

“It’s not true. You want to kill Lagertha.”

Ivar looked away, grimacing. Finally anger had overshadowed any other emotion since it was the only surge of strength he had thought to own for all those years: without it, Ivar was afraid he would have been just a poor cripple, some kind of village fool to mock and disrespect, someone of no importance at all.

_ Some crybaby like Sigurd, whom he believed to be absolutely unworthy of being called a son of Ragnar. _

“What if I’m going to kill Lagertha, uh?”, he defied her, confident.

Hilda’s lips curled to reveal her teeth in a silent growl.

Lagertha’s name was famous even overseas and every story she had heard was very specific about how deadly she was with any sort of weapon in her hands. She didn’t dare to question Ivar’s abilities as a warrior - nor that she had any evidence to, either - but she wasn’t sure he would have been able to best her in a single combat, given his limited mobility.

“It wouldn’t be wise”, she said, weighing each word. “Not now that you’re still blinded by your sorrow and your desperate need for justice…”

“Justice!”, he hissed, as if the healer was the only one to give a correct solution to a mind-blowing conundrum. “That’s what I want, justice! That’s why I’m going to kill her!”

Hilda had to resist the violent urge to kick him in the ribs and tell him he was behaving like a spoiled child who didn’t know how risky it was the mission he was pursuing.

“Can you be reasonable? What’s the point in dying while fighting for your revenge? Wouldn’t it be all in vain if you get yourself killed?”

The young viking took in a sharp breath through his nose. Hilda was steadily keeping her ground, stubbornly blocking his way to the door. It was hard to tell that she thought Ivar’s reasons for wanting Lagertha dead were fair, now that she was so persistently trying to dissuade him from taking his coveted revenge.

“It’s not your business,  _ woman. _ ”

“You’re wrong,  _ Ivar,  _ it is my business, since I care about you!”, she finally blurted out, resolutely folding her arms across her chest. “But if you want to reach Valhalla, please, be my guest”, she sassed, “go on your suicidal mission, if there’s nothing I could say to change your mind. Just remember that I warned you when you bleed out for a wound or you get you head chopped off…”

Ivar’s blue stare softened for a while, then mad fury overcame it again.

“I have to kill her,  _ Hilda _ , and I don’t need your blessing to do so”, he dryly spat, before rudely pushing her legs away. Caught off guard, she lost her balance and she had to hold onto the door not to fall.

“I just want you to stay safe, that’s all…”, she whispered, clenching her jaw so tightly it hurt.

Ivar snorted, but there was no trace of amusement in his hal, mocking laugh.

“I won’t get killed. Do you really think Lagertha could make it to scratch me? You don’t know anything about me.”

_ That was true,  _ Hilda thought,  _ they still didn’t know anything about each other. _

Yet, one thing had been made outstandingly clear: no one was allowed to get into Ivar’s way when he was trying to conquer something he craved so bad.

_ Not even her. _

  
  
  
  


Hilda waited for Ivar’s return, for she had nothing more to do than helplessly pray or listen to the revealing sounds of the forest surrounding the hut and, when he finally got back trailing behind his brothers she couldn’t help but let out a relieved sigh - even if he crawled away from everyone, hiding to tend at the wounds of his pride all alone.

“What happened?”, she asked carefully when he had already gone, and Ubbe pinched the bridge of his nose, swollen with a headache.

“Ivar challenged Lagertha to single combat and she refused, humiliating him. He swore to kill her nevertheless, so I guess that we must keep a close eye on him...I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Hilda nodded, handing Ivar’s brother a strange leaf to suck on until his headache had disappeared. He took it in his mouth and winced: it tasted like horseshit and made his tongue dull, like a useless piece of raw meat stuck between his teeth.

“I don’t want him to get hurt either. He’s lucky to be still alive, if the rumors about Lagertha’s skills are true.”

Ubbe dramatically collapsed on the bed he shared with Sigurd, letting out a small noise when his back hit against the lumpy surface of the mattress.

“I saw her fight once...believe me, the rumors are true. Anyway, I want to thank you. Not only for this”, he said, sticking his tongue out to show what was left of the healing leaf.

“For what, then?”

“Ivar told me that you tried to talk some sense into him...because you were scared for his life.”

Hilda blushed slightly in the dim lights of the candles. It was obviously difficult for Ubbe to talk about his feelings that openly, but she appreciated his effort anyway, feeling some sort of weird connection to him, even though they were still strangers, mere acquaintances who shared a roof due to an unusual twist of events in their otherwise so different lives.

She smiled even if Ubbe had closed his eyes and could not see it.

“Do not thank me. I really like Ivar despite his frequent mood swings and his hostility towards everyone. believe it or not, he’s nice to me…”

He nodded absentmindedly, his voice already sleepy.

“You’re lucky. Ivar doesn’t seem to be nice to anyone except you…”, he mumbled before drifting off into sleep without even bothering to take off his boots.

  
  
  
  


Two days had passed since Ivar had lost a chance to take his revenge against Lagertha.

Two days in which he had made sure to join his family only when strictly necessary, spending the rest of his time sulking alone or hitting white-hot iron bars at the blacksmith’s.

Hilda was laying outside the hut, enjoying the unusual warm weather, stargazing. By the time Ivar joined her, she had already repeated the names of three constellations.

“Hello”, she politely said when he laid his head next to hers in the wet grass. He groaned, making it clear that he displeased such a formality.

“I saw Odin today”, he said, outstretching one of his impossibly muscular arms to the sky as if he wanted to catch a star with his fingers.

The young woman scrunched her nose.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said, Hilda, are you deaf? The Allfather visited me.”

She nodded her head slowly, processing his words. Under her skull, she could feel a mole digging its way through the ground with its impressive nails.

Could she believe something like that? A god leaving his throne to pay a visit to a mortal, common man for whatever reason? No, she couldn’t. But since it was Ivar, she could at least give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Why would the Allfather come to Midgard? Was it a courtesy visit?”

Ivar rolled his eyes, nudging his elbow into her ribs softly.

“I’m not kidding. He came to tell me that father is dead.”

“I’m sorry…”

“There’s no need for you to be sorry. I knew Ragnar had to die...your mother had already told me that his days in this realm were coming to an end.”

The healer rolled on her side to snuggle against his chest and he tangled his fingers into her messy hair, combing the thick, brownish strands gently, eliciting an appreciating hum from her parted lips.

“How is it like to meet a god in person?”

He sighed. It took quite some time to him to find a proper answer to her question.

“Overwhelming”, he said, his voice low and husky. “But I couldn’t help thinking...I couldn’t help feeling like I’m destined to greatness, Hilda. Odin touched me. This means that I’m no common man…it means that I’m Ragnar’s true heir…”

Hilda nuzzled her face in the warm crook of his neck.

He radiated warmth even through the many layers of clothes he was wearing.

“If you’d try to kill Lagertha again, I won’t try to stop you. We’re all subject to the will of the Gods and I have no right to change your fate, Ivar, even when I think it would be better for you to follow my lead.”

She felt his lips curl into a smile.

“Now, please, tell me: what did your beloved moors taught you about the stars?”

The healer let out a small laugh.

After such tensed days she was more than glad to tell him everything Mansour had taught her about the stars.    __


	3. A home for a lost soul

III.

 

Hilda was eating a bruised, sandy apple, watching the multitude of people working at the project of the fortifications, her arms folded on her chest.

“I still don’t understand why you’re not helping, Hild. You live here, after all…”

She let out a sigh.

Eldrid, who was one of the few people she had befriended other than Ivar’s brothers, had appeared from nowhere - she was a master at it, appearing and disappearing like a ghost or an uncatchable fairy in the woods - and she was looking at her with genuine curiosity on her face. She was a tall and broad girl with unruly, copper colored hair and a fast mouth that sometimes reminded Hilda of Ælfrith: she owned her same boldness...and a silver of Milthryd’s naivety too, to be fair.

She was the older daughter of a fisherman, firstborn of a litter of four males - and another one that hadn’t been born yet - and she had developed a sisterly attachment to the healer, seeing her as the older sister she had never had.

Nearly a month had passed since her arrival and Hilda had started to grow fond of Kattegat and its industrious people, finally able to go wherever it pleased her without the constant company of one of the Ragnarssons. None of the villagers, including queen Lagertha’s shieldmaidens, minded her too much and once she had showed her abilities as a healer someone had even started to seek for her help, which she provided happily for she cherished her own job the most.

“I am not helping? How can you say such a mean thing, Eldi? I take care of those who get injured working at the fortifications...isn’t that enough?”

Eldrid gave her a faint smile.

“You’re afraid Ivar would get upset if he finds out what you’re doing down here, don’t deny it. He has sworn to kill her and rants about how gladly he’d gut her on a daily basis...”

Hilda scrunched her nose at the thought and her young friend chuckled at how funny she looked when she wasn’t deadly serious, focusing on her work on an injured person or just smiling out of courtesy at those who harassed her with their questions about how to take care of their rheumatic arthritis or their old wounds that hadn’t properly scarred yet.

“My mother has taught me to let the sleeping dogs lie…”, she murmured, discarding the apple core into a pit full of trash.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you told him already? He’s got a bad temper, I know it. He used to pull my hair when we played together when we were kids, but with you he looks like a meek lamb…”

Hilda burst into a throaty laugh.

As much as Ivar was very, very nice to her, he wasn’t  _ meek  _ at all.

“He’s good with me, really. Even when we argue. But no, he’s not meek, believe me.”

Eldrid shrugged slightly.  _ Clearly she was talking to a wall. _

“Whatever, Hild. Anyway, here’s the fish Ubbe asked my father for”, she said, taking her chance to change subject, handing Hilda a basket with four large, dark fishes in it. “Use the bones for a thick, savory broth. You can even let it solidify overnight and spread it on the bread, it tastes good. A Sami fisherman taught this to my father, he makes it whenever he can. He says it tastes nicer than butter.”

Hilda smiled, nodding her head.

Every single time she was with her, Eldrid was able to make her feel at home even outside the four walls of the Ragnarssons’ hut. And, frankly, sometimes she needed a break from Ivar and Sigurd’s endless bickering - Ubbe had confirmed her that their relationship had never been good, but it was deteriorating even more with each passing day -...bickering that usually turned into a real fight if her or Ubbe didn’t sedate it in time.

_ She had even dreamed of Ivar killing Sigurd once or twice, and she had genuinely wondered if those dreams were some kind of prophetic visions or just a product of what she could see everyday. _

She snapped back to reality when Eldrid told her that she needed to go back home, helping his father repair his damaged fishnets with her delicate womanly fingers, so they briefly kissed goodbye and Hilda cast a glance over the half-built fortifications, assessing the situation. When it was clear that no one required her immediate assistance, the healer walked back home, the gnawing sensation of being somehow wrong to Ivar making her antsy.

She didn’t want to tell him why she had started spending so much time down at the village, but what if he would have found it out alone? Surely, he was going to be mad at her, thinking she was sympathizing with Lagertha instead of taking his side as he expected her to do.

She tried to push that thought away, though, getting angry with herself for the lack of trust she had in his reason...but, undoubtedly, keeping her sort of dirty little secret from him seemed to be the safest option, at last…

  
  
  
  


“We’re going to gather an army to avenge our father. We’ll invade Northumbria first, then Wessex…”

Hilda took a sip of her soup, frowning.

“How can you do it, Ubbe? You hold no power over Kattegat, therefore you’re not in the position to invite anyone here, to join you for your revenge…”

Ivar gave her one of his infamous smug looks.

“You said it yourself many times, Hild, father was a hero to our people. This isn’t only our family’s vengeance, this is the vengeance of an entire country. Every single person who has heard Ragnar’s story would come here, ready to go to war for his memory”, he gloated. Ubbe rolled his eyes in response to his childish enthusiasm.

“But Hilda is right, brother. We have to inform Lagertha first, otherwise our lives would be put in a serious danger...including hers”, he said, tilting his head towards Hilda. She could only shrug, for it wasn’t up to her to decide over such a sensitive matter.

Ivar huffed, a spasm of anger making his jaw clench.

“We don’t need Lagertha’s permission to avenge our father, Ubbe”, he hissed, spitting out his brother’s name through gritted teeth as if it was a curse.

“We’re not asking for her permission, Ivar”, he said, stressing each word as if he was talking to a dumb three-year-old. “We’re just informing her that we’re assembling an army to sail to England and take our revenge against king Aelle and king Ecbert, so we don’t get murdered in our sleep. Did I make myself clear enough to be understood, brother?”

Ivar didn’t say any other word, but the petulant pout carved on his rosy lips said it all.

Hilda appreciated Ubbe’s reasonable behavior, though. 

“When are you going to ask her? There’s no way you can just casually bump into her at the market…”, Sigurd noticed, thoughtful.

Ivar chuckled, ready to mock him as he always did, but Ubbe was faster than him to speak.

“Of course not. But she spends most of her time down at the fortifications working with the others, so I’m sure I can meet her there…” 

Hilda gasped, hoping her flinch had gone unnoticed. If Ubbe was going at the building site it could only mean that the workers would have had to handle their injuries without her help.

Still, it wasn’t honorable for a healer to leave her duties unattended for any reason other that infirmity or death...but Ivar’s temper was a matter that she couldn’t overlook either.

Conflicted, she waited for the brothers to leave, then she wrapped herself into a hooded cloak and sneaked into the woods, cursing her ancestors for having passed her such a dreadful attachment to her job, not noticing that someone was following in her, protected by the bush.

  
  
  
  


When Hilda finally showed up at the building site she was welcomed by an unusual chattering, but she was forced to leave gossiping as soon as an old man needed her assistance not to bleed out for a big gash on his hand. Only when he was safely sutured and bandaged she dared to listen to the insistent whispers running from mouth to mouth, finding out that Ubbe had freed a slave without asking for Lagertha’s consent.

As much as she had learnt to love Ubbe, she had to admit to herself that the only thing keeping the Ragnarssons alive was their father’s name, considering they kept disrespecting the laws deliberately and that Ivar had sworn to kill the queen at the first opportunity.

The afternoon went on without further accidents, anyway, and Hilda allowed herself to try and observe Lagertha for the first time: she was a beautiful woman indeed, tall and muscular, visibly used to hard work and always ready to use a shovel when necessary. Even if she was covered in mud and dirt, her face looked ageless, unmarred by the passing time... _ like Maeve’s _ , Hilda found herself thinking, a hint of nostalgia making her eyes watery.

However, no matter how much Lagertha could have resembled Maeve somehow, she was the murderer of Ivar’s mother, a mother he had loved so dearly, therefore she wasn’t to befriend.

The healer went home at sunset, being greeted on the threshold by the usual resentful silence that followed a fight between Ivar and Sigurd. Not in the mood for their whims, she served dinner silently, sitting at the most secluded corner of the table to make his presence barely acknowledged, yet feeling Ivar’s heavy gaze on her nevertheless.

“Lagertha has sent emissaries with our message, but she won’t sail with us to avenge father”, Ubbe stated, breaking the tension.

Ivar nodded, satisfied.

“Good. We don’t owe her anything, then. Just like I suggested.”

Ubbe licked some fatty broth from his lips, then asked Sigurd to fetch some ale from their stash, watching him huff and groan while slamming the door behind him.

“There’s more”, he said, requesting both Ivar’s and Hilda’s attention. “I’ve got a plan.”

The two of them listened to his words attentively, a serious frown on their faces. His plan was clear and simple, but it required the allegiance of a small and highly motivated group of warriors, eager to make a name for themselves once the sons of Ragnar had taken Kattegat back once and for all. Ivar’s eyes sparkled with the utmost pleasure throughout his brother’s whole speech, brightening even more when Ubbe stated that Sigurd wouldn’t have had a part in any of that.

That night, Hilda and Ivar had sex for the first time since they had left Wessex, but Hilda got the feeling that it was less of a good fuck and more of a angry fuck, as if Ivar was having sex with her because he was troubled by something she had said or done. Her heart sank at the thought and when Ivar finished she felt relieved to feel him sloppily slip out of her, falling into a restless sleep shortly after.

She, on the other hand, wasn’t able to sleep for a while, and when she fell asleep on Ivar’s shoulder she dreamed of the sea turning into blood, waking up with the certainty that the inevitable war her mother had foreseen was closer than she thought.

  
  
  
  


“Why are you leaving so early?”

Hilda flinched back, spooked, when she saw Ivar waiting for her behind the closed door.

She felt the desperate urge to curse, but no sound made it out of her mouth.

How could she justify it? There weren’t many excuses she could come up with, other than lying blatantly.

“I could ask you the same”, she played out casually, tugging a strand of her half-braided hair behind her ear, hoping to change subject as soon as she could.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the best way to outsmart a man like Ivar.

“Well, you know why I leave early: I get in town and I work at the blacksmith’s. But you? Where do you go? Do you wander around like a sleepwalker or you go to Kattegat too?”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“I...uh...help the fisherman’s daughter. Eldrid. You must remember her, she told me she used to play with you when you were kids…her father is Arnulf the One-Eyed.”

Ivar scratched his temple, thoughtful, but Eldrid’s name didn’t ring any bell in his memory. Her father though, he remembered him: he had lost an eye when he was still a kid and people used to say it had been a monster to tear it out of his skull while he was fishing in the open sea with his older brothers. Hilda impatiently wrapped herself up her wool cloak, wondering if Ivar had bought his story.

_ Highly doubtful. _

“Sit with me for a while”, he then said, plopping himself on the wet grass. “Please?”

The healer nodded, sitting by his side.

Ivar sighed, it was a long a sigh, so different from the noises she was used to coming from his mouth.

“I was mad at you, last night. I hope I didn’t harm you”, he finally whispered, looking away.

Hilda chewed on her lower lip nervously, feeling Ivar’s body get more and more tensed as the time passed.

“No, you didn’t. I just wonder why you were mad at me, that’s it…”

_ “Because Sigurd told me that you’re taking care of the people who get injured working for Lagertha” _ , he said, almost hissing. There was anger in his voice, but it was dull and distant, more like resignation than to real anger. A buzzing annoyance, actually, like the distant sound of the sea from the top of a cliff.

Hilda realized she was holding her breath only when her lungs started to burn.

“You...did you ask Sigurd to spy on me?”

Her voice came out harsher than she intended, but she couldn’t help it at all.

Ivar snorted bitterly.

“No, why should I? I trust you with my life. It was him who had decided to follow him and report what you were doing to me, with the sole purpose of hurting me. I admit I felt hurt at first, betrayed, angry. But then…”, he said, smirking to himself as if he was mocking his own brain to having tricked him to believe Hilda could be that disloyal, “I thought that you are a healer, after all, that you cure people no matter what...like you did with me. You could have left me to die, but you had chosen to take care of me and then to come here with me...as long as you don’t leave me, you can do whatever you want. Just...just be careful with the people you bump in, promise me…”

He had spoken stubbornly looking at a matted puddle of mud, his pride screaming and kicking. Hilda knitted her brows. How come Ivar had acted that reasonable? He was rarely reasonable...and it wasn’t like him to give up like that, not when it came to such sensitive matters.

“Why are you telling me this, Ivar?”, she calmly asked, skeptical.

The young viking shrugged slightly, his big hand covering hers and squeezing gently.

“Because I don’t want you to think about me the way other people do. I don’t want you to think that I am mean.”

She let out an airy chuckle, finally allowing her body a little bit of relax.

“You’re not mean to me, Ivar. That’s enough.”

_ Will it always be enough, Hilda?  _ He found himself wondering. Yet, he didn’t dare to voice his doubt out, unable to stand a negative response.

He didn’t know what to say, though: _ he was so used at being seen as a monster that he didn’t even know how did it feel to be treated like a man.  _

  
  
  
  


The first boats had started to approach the shores of Kattegat on a late afternoon some days after Hilda and Ivar’s talk, led by the men and women who had decided to join the Ragnarssons in their expedition against England. Hilda watched the many different sails waving in the cold wind, casting occasional glances at Eldrid, who was enjoying the sight with the enthusiasm of a child, her eyes shining bright in the sun.

Ivar and Ubbe joined them on the pier, both in a cheerful mood, talking about war and revenge. When their chat diverted on the plan Ubbe had orchestrated to kill Lagertha, the healer decided that it was wiser to take Eldrid away, not wanting her to be involved with such a dangerous thing.

“Why are you keeping me out of this, Hild? I’m your closest friend, I should support you…!”

Hilda wrapped her arm around her waist, crossing the large street leading to her small home. It was built near the sea, almost  _ above  _ the sea, and two sturdy fishing-boats were anchored just before the threshold, in a small inlet that protected them from the waves and the wind.

“And you are supporting me, believe me! But I want you to be safe, to protect you. Ubbe’s plan is clever, but it’s very risky. If we’re to fail, I want you to be as safe as possible, therefore I won’t get you involved with this story”, she firmly stated, hoping to cut it short.

Eldrid pouted.

“You’re not responsible for me, Hilda…”

She smiled softly. Eldrid was like a sister to her, of course she felt in need to protect her…

“No, but I’m older, therefore wiser. Can you do as I say, please? For once. Only for once. Then, I promise I won’t stand in your way anymore.”

“Whatever it happens?”

Hilda reluctantly agreed.

When she finally got back to the Ragnarssons’ hut, she found a new dress waiting for her on the bed, a gift from Ivar. It was made with arabic fabric, she could see it in the way it had been perfectly sewed, colored in a warm sandy shade. Nothing too eye-catching, but surely fancier than a common wool dress. She wore it, then walked to the town, where Ivar was waiting for her outside the heavy doors of the Great Hall.

_ His former home _ , she thought bitterly, trying to conceal it under a bright smile.

Ivar thought she looked nothing less than a queen and a genuine, most rare smile, appeared on his lips.

“Are you ready?”, he asked, crawling beside her.

She nodded.

Ready or not, it didn’t matter: Ubbe’s plan sounded clever enough, actually clever enough to succeed, therefore she could not defect.

_ She was ready. _

_ She was ready. _

_ She was--- _

  
  
  
  


The Great Hall looked almost swollen with people, bursting with life and jokes and laughter.

Hilda had seen most of the people packed inside while they were working at the fortifications - one of them, called Thorbjorn, still wore the bandage she had applied to his injured arm some days before, after he had a close encounter with the blade of an axe.

She inspected the room carefully, spotting Sigurd playing his oud at a table, with Eldrid clapping her hands to the tune while some girls danced and laughed. Ivar started to crawl through the thick crowd, so she followed him to Ubbe, who handed them a couple of mead each and toasted to their success.

“There’s no turning back, now”, he announced dramatically, with his voice so low it was barely audible. “No one beside Lagertha herself needs to get harmed, so when I tell you to leave”, he told Hilda, looking at her in the eyes, “you leave without hesitation, all right?”

The young woman took a sip of her mead, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“I’d rather stay, Ubbe. Just in case…”

_...just in case I have to set up a pyre for one or both of them,  _ a malicious little voice in her head said, mockingly, and she felt her guts twist.

Ivar pushed a seat against the back of her legs and she sat obediently, letting him lay his head on her lap like a tired puppy after a long walk.

Ubbe gave him a dirty look, but he blatantly ignored him, stroking his hairless cheek against her thigh. The older brother rolled his eyes, then, wondering if Hilda was on her way to become a feminine version of Ivar himself.

“Ah, whatever! But don’t blame it on me if you get hurt”, he groaned, leaving them for a far better company.

Ivar finally gave Hilda a toothy grin.

“Do you want to see how an usurper dies, Hilda?”, he squealed, delighted.

She sneered.

Lagertha had never offended her personally, no, she wasn’t there to see her die.

_ She was there because Ivar was there. _

_ She was there because the wind had called her there, at Ivar’s side, whether he had to die or to succeed at avenging his beloved mother. _

For what other reason, then?

Two nerborute warriors finally shut the door close, barring it, and that was the signal they had all agreed upon to mark the beginning of the action.

Ivar slithered away and Hilda mixed in the crowd that was starting to become more and more apprehensive.

Somehow, she found herself stuck behind a wall of people blocking her view, making her groan softly. Eldrid reached for her from behind - Hilda didn’t even wonder how she could have done it, she knew better that the fisherman’s daughter was a master at the art of sneaking here and there unseen - and squeezed her hand so tight it hurt.

The healer noticed it was clammy with nervous sweat.

_ Stubborn child, how many times did I tell you to stay out of this? _

Too bad Eldrid couldn’t hear her thoughts, though.

She tried to push away some of the people that had blocked her view, but it looked like their feet were stuck to the ground by ancient roots that couldn’t be moved, so she had to give up and patiently wait for Ivar to throw an axe at Lagertha’s head  _ \- or Lagertha behead him like she had seen some moors do when she lived in Sicily, as much as the idea itself was so dreadfully terrible she felt like throwing up at the sole thought. _

No one dared to speak or move.

She didn’t even dare to breath, actually.

Even Eldrid, who was part of the family only collaterally not sharing blood with anyone of them, was frozen in place.

Suddenly, the doors slammed open with a loud thud and the whole crowd retreated like a wave during a storm, their mouths agape with the outmost shock.

A very big, tall man made his entrance in the Great Hall. From the little glimpses of his frame she could catch, Hilda recognized him as Björn Ragnarsson, the one they used to call ‘Ironside’, Ragnar’s firstborn... _ Lagertha’s son. _

She swallowed a curse and watched him as he tried to talk some sense into his treacherous younger brothers and, whereas Ubbe acted compliantly enough, Ivar let out a loud groan of frustration.

Hilda spared Björn a closer look: wrapped in all those furs he looked just like a bear ready to tear and maul, and a chill full of fear ran down her spine.

Eldrid groped at her shoulders, her long, sharp nails digging into the healer’s soft skin, scratching under the fabric of her dress.

“This is not good”, she whispered.

“Not at all”, echoed Hilda, her throat already clasped with fear.

The brotherly skirmish didn’t last long, though.

_ Björn got the upper hand without needing to spill any blood. _

When the crowd thinned out, revealing that Ubbe and Ivar had left, Hilda could finally exhale a relieved sigh.

  
  
  
  


Walking through the packed hallways Hilda couldn’t help but watch with the outmost amazement how Kattegat was a growing city, even though Lagertha was having fortifications built all around the main settlement.

“Where are we going, Ivar? I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of the village before…”, she said, panting heavily for the long walk. Ivar was crawling fast, excitement reverberating through his bones and coming from him in waves. The air smelled of sweet bread and fish and salt, the noises of the main town already distant.

“I want you to meet a friend”, he said, smirking mysteriously.

“A friend?”

The young viking scoffed. 

“A father, almost. He took care of my education while Ragnar was playing the hermit in the woods, licking the wounds off his pride instead of attending his duties as a king...and a father”, he blurted out, resentment oozing from his voice. Hilda could understand the feeling: even though his father dearly, Ivar couldn’t forgive his father for his deception. Sometimes she too was angry at her own father for having died when she was so young and needed him like air to breathe.

They walked in silence, then, each one lost in their own thoughts, until a wooden hut appeared in distance, just where the houses thinned out brutally, becoming rarer and more distant one from the other, and the air felt more humid and salty, sticking to their clothes like a wet blanket.

There was a large grin plastered on Ivar’s face when they reached the hut, and he got inside without even bothering to knock first. Hilda followed him with uncertain, shy steps, and a small smile on her lips.

There were three people inside. One was a blonde, beautiful woman who was feeding a girl who looked far too old to be fed and far too dark-skinned to be born in the norse lands.

She was too similar to Ælfrith to blend within the vikings, with her unmistakable moorish features.

“Hello, Floki”, Ivar greeted the other inhabitant of the hut, a bearded man sitting by the window. “This is Hilda. She saved my life.”

The man, Floki, eyed at Hilda with the same curiosity of a puppy, his nervous fingers vibrating in the air as if he was playing a tune no one but he himself could hear.

When he stood up, Hilda noticed that he was skinny and tall, all legs like a malnourished deer during a rigid winter.

“Hilda, Hilda, Hilda”, he chanted, swaying to her and letting out a weird little chuckle. “You’re not a christian”, he stated when his bony fingers traced a curious pattern on her forehead. She was about to say something, but he smiled so brightly and genuinely the words died on her lips. “Sit, child, eat! This is your home!”, he said, placing a bowl of something in her hands. Then he drew his attention to Ivar. They bickered for a while, until Floki’s wife - Helga - ordered them to stop because they were  _ “scaring her child” _ .

When Ivar reached to touch her, the girl started screaming and kicking furiously, like a small mouse trapped in a pit full of hungry cats, and Helga was forced to carry her to the other room.

Without thinking about it twice, the young healer followed them, unable to stifle a long sigh when she saw Helga trying to calm the moorish girl by stroking her curls gently, whispering sweet nothings to her ear.

“What’s her name?”, she finally dared to ask, keeping her voice as quiet as possible not to startle her further.

Helga gave her a sad smile.

“Tanaruz. Her name is Tanaruz.”

_ It was a berber name. _

Hilda remembered she had heard it once or twice when she was living in Sicily. Mansour had told her it was some kind of misspelled berber name and its translation was hope, or something really close to it.

“Where...where did you get her?”

Floki’s wife winced, annoyed by such a direct question.

“Björn called that place Hispania”, she dryly said, and the younger woman nodded.

Poor Tanaruz: born and raised in the sunny cities of Spain by her own kind, then kidnapped and forced to live with people she couldn’t even communicate with. Not that she showed particular interest into communicating anything, though. Hilda tried to speak to her in arabic, but even then she managed to remain silent and look away carelessly, as if the mere eye-contact felt harmful to her scarred mind.

“Do you speak her language?”

Hilda nodded and Helga’s eyes brightened with a happiness that seemed to have avoided her for so long.

“Then tell her...tell her that...that from now on I’ll be her mother. That I love her so much, oh so much”, she wept, a pair of large tears rolling from her eyes.

The healer did what she was told, but Tanaruz refused to acknowledge her efforts, staring in distance with her vacant, transfixed eyes.

“I…”, she started to say, but Helga smiled and shook her head.

“She will talk. I know it. As soon as she feels at home, she will talk.”

In the main room, Floki and Ivar were tangled into a messy hug. She felt somehow relieved when they finally left Floki’s family alone, walking back to the crowded streets near the market.

“So? What did you and Floki talk about when I was helping Helga with Tanaruz?”, she asked Ivar, grabbing a strip of salt-dried meat from a rack.

“I asked him for a small favor…”, he vaguely said. Hilda chuckled at his elusiveness.

“What favor?”, she pushed. Ivar chuckled at her curiosity.

“I asked him for a pair of legs”, was his noncommittal answer.

Hilda only frowned, but she didn’t dare to question him further.   __


End file.
